


The Vampire Slayer

by pineapplesquid



Series: Everything strange ends up here [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Gen, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pineapplesquid/pseuds/pineapplesquid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two new visitors to Night Vale raise curiosity and alarm, but may turn out to be more helpful than expected. Also, the annual potluck competition and a brief history of Night Vale's graveyards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Vampire Slayer

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to geese-in-flight for beta-ing. And to Welcome to Night Vale for making such a fun show.

The winter wind howls through the forest, whistling around the non-existant mountain tops. Welcome to Night Vale.

Well, listeners, I have a busy show for you today, but first I have to report on a piece of local news that just reached my ears. It turns out that we have a visitor to our little town. Yes, I know, this is a rare event in Night Vale, given that we do not appear on any maps and the highway exit is not visible unless you know exactly what you’re looking for. The occasional outsider, like my dear Carlos or the entirely forgettable man with the tan jacket who may or may not have been here for a very long time, does find their way into our community.  However, this is a rare event indeed. But I just had a phone call from Miss Elizabeth, you know, the kindergarten teacher who has taught several generations of Night Vale children and who never seems to age, that she saw two visitors drive into town today. One of them is an older man who, reportedly, speaks with an English accent, and he is accompanied by a younger blonde woman. Why they have come here, or if when they leave they will leave us with a faint but lingering longing for their presence again, even if only for a moment, just to see them once more, just ONCE!, or if they will leave at all, I cannot say.

Now, the community calendar. It’s a little sparse this week, folks, particularly as _both_ Wednesday and Friday have been cancelled. I must interject a personal opinion here—while we can sacrifice most days of the week, I feel that it is cruel to our working population to cancel Friday, that beacon that signals the light at the end of the tunnel. Take Tuesday, or Thursday, or even, please, Monday—but let us have our Fridays to look forward to. Anyway. Monday is our annual potluck battle, in which every organization in Night Vale with more than ten members must host a communal dinner gathering. Specially trained judges will be visiting each potluck to judge its quality in variety, balance of entrees and desserts, effectiveness as weapons in the event of a zombie apocalypse, and tastiness. The winning organization will collect a prize of one hundred dollars to spend on civic programming, while all the others will have to pay the usual tithe of a tenth of their members. So get out your favorite recipes and start cooking!

Tuesday we expect a rain of squid. Thursday is National Literacy Day. Be careful, listeners, and do _not_ approach the library. Thursday evening we will have a public memorial service for all those who were killed by books in the past year, and secretive, private remembrances of all of our citizens who were arrested by the sheriff’s secret police for unauthorized book posession and never heard from again.

I interrupt us now for a special announcement from the City Council. They wish to remind all Night Vale residents that there are no visitors to Night Vale, as there is nothing outside of Night Vale. Well, except possibly Desert Bluffs, but nobody from there would ever be brave enough to come over here anyway. The Council reminds all of you that the rest of the world was declared legally missing or dead two years ago, and that therefore outsiders are at best hallucinations or at worst scouts from that underground city beneath the pin retrieval area of lane five of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex. If you see an outsider you are directed to ignore them as a figment of your imagination and seek immediate cognitive recalibration from the sheriff’s secret police, or, if you believe that they are a scout for an invading army, arrange a lynching at your nearest convenience. Torches and pitchforks will be provided by city officials upon request.

I have another report from Phil Pearson, you know, the guy who works at the drive though window at Arby’s, that our visitors have been walking around town. He reports that they appear confused by the semaphore signals of the sheriff’s secret police in the intersection. I must say, it seems very rude to come visit a town and not even bother to learn the traffic ettiquette! Phil is also saying that, unlike every visitor he’s ever met, including his mother-in-law, they seem completely unsurprised by the number of graveyards in Night Vale, which we are abundantly blessed with.

This seems like a good opportunity for a small lesson on the history of our town. You all probably know that Night Vale has nineteen cemetaries within the town limits, but you may not know how they have shaped our town. Our oldest cemetary, the one on Cadaver Street, was actually built several years _before_ anybody lived here, and held, then and now, only imaginary mausoleums where no bodies were ever buried. Nevertheless, it has lived on in Night Vale legend as the most haunted cemetary in town, a reputation that, in my opinion, is entirely deserved. Which of us did not partake in that cherished coming-of-age ritual in which we crept out of our warm houses and spent the night in the graveyard fiercely clinging to our lives as the maelstrom of angry spirits whirled around us and attempted to rip out our souls, thence to return to Miss Elizabeth’s class the next morning and tell tales of our own bravery? Ah, the destruction of the bright innocence of childhood is one story in which we all can share.

It was a while longer before the next graveyard in town was established, as the first generations of Night Vale residents had a tradition of disposing of remains in mass, unmarked graves far out in the desert sand. Within a few decades of this practice, however, it became difficult to find any piece of desert sand that was not already occupied by a previous mass unmarked grave, and so organized cemetaries were instated. Within the next two years five new graveyards were built, following the strict organizational pattern that we adhere to yet today, with odd-numbered cemetaries owned by the town and open to all citizens, and even-numbered cemetaries owned by specific churches or other associations.

These early graveyards are treasure troves of town history. Cemetary number four, the one outside First Unholy Congregation, is particularly considered pleasing to the eye and suitably chilling to the soul, crowded as it is with jagged tombstones, looming mausoleums, macabe statuary, and a pervading sense of sorrow and doom, along with perpetual twilight. Number five holds the largest cemetary monument known, the mile-long Wall of Unknown Terrors, on which is written the name of every citizen of Night Vale who vanished under mysterious circumstances and whose remains were never recovered, as well as the graves of every town official and mayor _ever_. Want to know who will win a future election? Care to see if local government is in your future? Visit Graveyard Number Five to check the names on the stones and find out.

Night Vale went through another graveyard building boom in the sixties, when several of the old cemetaries were declared too full. Of particular note is the graveyard of the Church of the Consecrated Bloodstone, which, on philosophical grounds, has forbidden tombstones. Those with family members buried there generally leave flowers wherever they feel that the lingering presence of their loved one is strongest, or, if they lack a psychic in the immediate family, in whatever spot just seems nicest. The one next to it, Memorial Gardens, is remarkable for its dull and uninspired landscaping; planted with willows and evergreens, with marble stones in rows and thick green grass and absolutely no mausoleums or enormous looming statues, it is the most boring, lackluster place in town.

I don’t have time for a detailed description of all of our fair graveyards, listeners, but you can see for yourself! With the summer holidays coming on, I know that parents are looking for out of school enrichment options. Take a nice family day and go explore our town’s dead history. Show your children the names of our forebearers and the prominent citizens of our town. Let them admire for themselves the will-o-the-wisps and eternal ghostly flames in the Masonic graveyard. Test them for early-manifesting psychic ability by having them try to contact an ancestor at the Church of the Consecrated Bloodstone. Learn math by having them take etchings and then calculate the change in life expectancy of Night Vale citizens over the decades. And most importantly, have fun!

Oh, wait. I’m just now getting another note from Intern Jonathan. Oh dear. It says here that one of the visitors, the blonde woman, has _stepped_ on a crack in the sidewalk. This is bad, listeners, this is very bad. Nobody has stepped on a sidewalk crack in living memory. Well, at least not theirs.

Jonathan is on the phone with what I assume must be an eyewitness to the event, who says that no calamities have befallen the unfortunate young woman. Yet.

We interrupt this report for an urgent safety message from the sheriff’s secret police. They are instructing all Night Vale residents to _avoid sidewalks_. Get as far away from them as possible.  They are not safe. Go inside and stay away from windows. If there is a sidewalk outside of your house, seek shelter with family or friends in a sidewalk-free neighborhood. Do not think about sidewalks, do not look at sidewalks, and most importantly, _do not touch_ a sidewalk under any conditions.

And now, the financial report. The sunset paints the evening sky with all of the colors you can imagine; pinks and golds and blues and oranges and the smallest touches of green. Waves crash on the sand, over and over and over and over again, each one washing the beach, removing the trace of the wave that came before only to have its imprint wiped away in turn. The sound of the waves is hypnotic as you feel your blood rushing with their rhythm, in and out and in and out, the sound of the seashell held to your ear the same as your blood the same as the water. Someone behind you matches their breath to yours, in and out, the sigh of the air in their lungs an echo of the ocean before you. The waves meet your breath and you feel as if you are tumbling around in them as they buffet your body mercilessly, in and out and in and out until you don’t know which way is up or down and there is nothing but the measure of the waves and your breath in your throat and the blood in your veins, each of them pounding, in and out and in and out and in and out. This has been the financial report.

Oh dear, another note from Intern Jonathan. He tells me that a sharp-eyed citizen who lives across from the First Unholy Congregational Church tells me that there is movement in the graveyard. I immediately contacted the sheriff’s secret police, who have informed me that nothing is happening and that it is entirely under control. The citizen near the church, however, tells me that what he is seeing is indisputably a gang of vampires on PCP, roaming the graveyard wearing cheap knockoff imitations of the secret police’s leather balaclavas and drinking the blood of anyone they can find. Night Vale residents, I am sure that you can remember what happened to our town last time—vandalism, property damage and theft, not to mention the slaughter of every civilian who was not safe at home. Remember, vampires cannot enter your home unless invited. And for once, listeners, I will recommend caution over courtesy. If you are not safe at home, seek the nearest shelter and hope that they do not find you.

Oh. Wait. You may not need to worry, listeners. I am getting reports that one of the visitors, the young blonde woman, is _fighting_ the vampires. She appears to be having success, forcing a wooden stake into their chests, whereupon, I am told, they collapse into a pile of dust. And to think, it was that easy the whole time.

I have just had another call from Miss Elizabeth, you know, the kindergarten teacher. She tells me that she recognizes our visitors—kind of. She says that she has never seen these ones before, but she knows who they are. The young woman, she states, is a vampire slayer, the latest in a line of women who have been called to fight demons and defend the world against evil. Well, slaying vampires is certainly what she’s doing out there now. If our visitor is indeed the Slayer, and not a mass hallucination or an advance scout, then I must say that we are glad to have her here, particularly as she seems to be happy to help us take care of our vampire problem. I will bring you more news on this as it happens, but for the moment, a word from our sponsor.

The ticking of a clock as it circles around. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Each measured beat a moment of your life that has now passed you buy, leaving you closer to death without ever finding the meaning of it all anyways. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Waiting that will never end. Free two day shipping, now with Amazon Prime.

Listeners, I am sorry to tell you that the situation has gotten worse. The Slayer was nearly done fighting the vampires when the sidewalks awoke. As they began to move and meld, twisting into shapes that hurt the eye as the edges slipped into darker dimensions that we cannot even comprehend, so did the cracks begin to open. And, as I can see from my own window in the recording studio, from them have emerged indiscribable horrors which I must now try to describe to you, eldritch abominations that warp reality and twist our sanity such that I would rather put out my own eyes than look at them again, rather block my ears and remove my tongue than listen to their unearthly chanting or speak to you of their twisted visages! And now, as we all huddle, knowing the danger that approaches and the ghastly and no doubt painful fates that await each and every one of us, I bring you. . . [the weather](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JeK_aAWjmfw).

Listeners, I come back to you and back to a world of new hope and joy. During the weather I was able to go to the little window in our recording studio. Imagine my shock when I saw that the eldritch horrors which I had previously beheld were not advancing on me, but rather were engaged in fighting the young blonde visitor to our town! They were putting up a stiff fight, but let me tell you, she was holding her own. As I watched she wounded two severely enough that they fled from her, scuttling back into the cracks in the sidewalk like terrible and supernatural cockroaches. This woman, the Slayer, our savior, turned from her vanquished foes to face the others that crowded round—but although there were moments when my heart quailed within me she held her own, driving each back in turn until our streets were clear again! I cannot see any more of the beings, and I think it is safe for all of you to come out again. Neither can I see any corpses on the streets! It is hard to believe, but I think we have emerged from this crisis almost entirely unscathed! But on that note, I must offer my condolences to the family of Intern Jonathan. He fell in the line of duty, a true journalist, slain by a vampire in the quest for an interview with the Slayer. Jonathan, and his dedication to our show, will be deeply missed. But we also rejoice in the low death toll of today, and thank our mysterious visitor the Slayer for saving us all.

Our visitors have left us, returning quickly to their vehicle and speeding out of town, without ever once exchanging a word with any of us. It is hard, listeners, to know how to feel when someone like that just steps into your life one day, saves you and everyone you know from an unimaginably horrible fate, and then, just as quickly, steps out. Where they are off to, what they will find, what monsters they will face or untimely ends they will meet or sidewalk horrors they may fight we will never know. But isn’t that how it is with life? We interact with the people around us, thinking that we know what is happening in their lives, but really we only know what happens in that tiny slice of time in which we are sharing a physical space in this town in the middle of this vast desert in the middle of the howling void. Every other person that we meet has an entire life of their own, and we can’t ever really know if they’re happy, or angry, or lonely, or a demon clothed in human flesh, or an undercover agent for the sheriff’s secret police, or a vampire slayer. In the end, everyone we see is a mystery to us, with enormous depths that we do not, and will not, ever really know. And each of us has depths that nobody else will ever see. And, well, I guess that’s just people for you.

Now, to each of you, as you lie dreaming in your own little world that nobody but you will ever comprehend, I say good night, Night Vale. Good night.


End file.
